


Choke

by Avathys



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Depression, Hanahaki Disease, Idiots in Love, Loneliness, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Pining, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Touch-Starved, Unrequited Love, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29070861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avathys/pseuds/Avathys
Summary: Din stares down at the flower, covered in saliva and blood. His throat throbs.It’s blue, the same blue as the Jedi’s eyes.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett, Din Djarin/Boba Fett/Fennec Shand, Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth, Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 42
Kudos: 173





	Choke

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> So here my DinLuke Hanahaki story. As soon as I saw the finale back in December, when Din watched Luke and Grogu leave, the heartbreak, angst and longing in his eyes, but he silently held it all in, just let it happen…. Guys, it was literally fucking Hanahaki101. However, I already had two WIPs *sweats*, so I held off. Then I hit major writer’s block early January and decided to give this a whirl to get the ole juices flowing. I’ve been laboring over this beauty for three weeks now and I hope yall like it.  
> If you're here because of my other works, know that Catch Fire With me is 90% done and ready and And Yet Ways Change is about 70% percent done. So they'll get here. I promise.  
> Hanahaki disease - for those that don’t know what it is, it’s a trope about a completely fictitious and impossible disease (but hey, what else in new in fandom) and it happens when someone falls into unrequited love, causing flowers to grow in their lungs. They often cough them up randomly as the disease spreads, progressing from single petals, to buds, to whole flowers. They have to either confess their feelings or slowly suffocate to death.

_He knows what the petal means._

_The galaxy has built an entire mythos around the concept. Romantic, cautionary, borderline dramatic at times. Various societies have created everything from sappy romance holonovelas to intensive scientific research programs to horror stories that elevate the flowers from fatal illness to infamous legend._

_He also knows exactly who the petal is for._

_The Mandalorian places his boot over the evidence of his shame, grinds his heel until the unwelcome botanical intruder is nothing but discolored, slimy pulp. Just a wet smear against the metal grating of the ship_ _’s floor._

_Finally, he knows this means his death. A long, drawn out farewell, because he_ _’s not doing …_ this _._

_Din refuses._

_The whole concept is for children._

_And idiots._

~*~

The exhaust conduit of the hyperdrive is malfunctioning again. Everything shutters as the stars streak past him in a psychedelic array that leaves him dizzy if he stares too long. The vibration of the faulty technology riddled throughout his new - _old_ \- ship is just for extra nauseous enjoyment really. It completes the experience.

In all honesty, he needs to replace the whole system, completely overhaul the entire exhaust before it brings about his untimely, lonely death. Months earlier, both Fett and the junkyard salesman had warned him as much, listing off the many repairs he would have to make to get the Razor Crest’s replacement running again.

Din refused to budge, picking the derelict craft because it was a similar model to the Crest, extremely hard to find and unfortunately left to decay in the back of junkyard for decades. But Din had wanted her. He needed the scrapped heap, in all her rusted, outdated glory.

He even named his new ship the Razor Crest II.

Fett had called it the Razor Nest as he kicked at dried weeds and twigs shaped into an obvious bird’s nest sitting on the pilot’s seat. Shand smirked and called it the Razor Pest Too when a rat scurried underneath her feet. Din shooed them away, running one hand over the flight panel as he smiled forlornly under his helmet.

Now, as he sits in the pilot seat of the rattling ship, he grips the yoke in his hands a little too firmly. His knuckles ache, but he can’t let go.

He knows he won’t part with her, no matter what anyone says. 

__

Din thinks he is handling his new life well. Cara blinks at him and opens her mouth to argue when he says so, but seems to think better of it. The Mandalorian grumbles to himself, quiet and private.

He _is_ though.

The Razor Crest II is running, abate barely, and he is now taking jobs regularly. Small jobs, easy jobs. Cheap ones that barely pay the bills. But he has begun slowly replacing the things he’s lost. He has a high-end shaving kit, one with a nice self-sharpening blade. He replaces the various trinkets of his trade, from a new vibroblade to basic rope. Even buys cutlery and a sparce set of dishes – as in one bowl, one plate, and a lone storage container – which he tucks into his new cabinet over his new kitchenette. There are new sheets and new blankets in the foreign single berth.

Din even splurges on a replacement Amban pulse blaster. It might not be the exact same model as his old one, just like the Crest and Crest II are the same yet so different, but it does come with a beautiful, user intuitive scope his old one had lacked.

Din stays on the move. Working.

And that _works_ for him.

Cara doesn’t seem to agree, but she stays mute, knocking back shots with practiced ease as they sit in companionable silence next to each other in the cantina. Neither one needs to speak and Din is happy about that too. Being with Cara is effortless, simple, and it’s exactly what he needs right now.

__

The Darksaber is tucked into a hidden nook near the head of his bed. It’s just a gap between two loose metal panels, but he shifts one aside, sets the saber down between the pipes, and then shoves the panel back into place.

Din moves to stand at the foot of the berth, hand on the door panel control, staring at the spot on the wall where the Darksaber lies behind the metal, innocent and hidden from view.

He tries not to focus on the fact that there’s no tiny hammock hanging between the beams above him.

__

The Jedi sends Din weekly holo-messages. At first, they start out rather short, hesitant, as if the blond isn’t exactly sure he should be reaching out. His young face is so open though, smile flashing as he tells Din about how Grogu is settling in, the latest sorcerer skill he has begun learning, or how the little green bugger likes to climb into his lap to nap. How Grogu prefers to be carried around in a sling wrapped close to the Jedi’s chest.

Luke.

Din knows the other man’s name, but he prefers to keep it impersonal. The Jedi doesn’t know – or need- Din’s name. Fair is fair.

So he just thinks of him as ‘the Jedi.’ And he never responds, even as the weeks expand slowly into months. What exactly is he supposed to say? The Jedi only ever talks about Grogu, sometimes throwing in a comment about the weather, or maybe a local holiday. Once he talks about repairing a leak in the dormitory roof. Should Din send back that he has a new gun and two tracking fobs, the target of one contract already captured and now tucked into the hull of Din’s cramped, rundown ship, frozen in carbonite with a broken arm after a vicious fight that left the Mandalorian gasping as he sewed messy, burning stiches into the tender flesh of his inner thigh? Grogu had seen plenty of blood while with him, but it might be a bit much to ask the innocent, fresh faced, and decidedly hero-like savior of the galaxy, Luke Skywalker, to recount gruesome streets conquests to a baby.

On the other hand, Din in no way can just repeatedly reply ‘thanks for the update!’ with a thumbs up and … smile? Luke – The Jedi – wouldn’t even be able to see it.

So Din just… doesn’t answer.

But then, one week the message doesn’t come. The Mandalorian sits in his chair, back rigid, tapping his fingers in an anxious line across his knee, for an entire 24 hour cycle. Waiting. He eats there, falls asleep there. Wakes up the next morning with an awful kink in his neck and a knot in his lower back.

As the sleep fog lifts, the light indicating a new message file blinks green at him. Green like Luke’s – _the Jedi_ _’s –_ laser sword. Well that’s distracting and entirely unhelpful. Din watches the light oscillate. On. Off. On. Off.

When he finally hits play, the Jedi flickering into focus above the panel projector, Din is somehow even more jittery than before. Buzzing almost. The face in the transparent hologram looks a little tired, hair mussed. The ebony cloak has a small tear in the hood. Din freezes when he sees a small, darkening spot on one cheek. A bruise.

No, couldn’t be. Probably just dirt.

“Hello, sorry about the delay. I was searching for a new student that needed help and things got… interesting.”

Din can’t look away from the dark smudge. He has personally seen this man, this unassuming and purely virtuous knight, take out an entire platoon of Dark Troopers. It _had_ to be dirt.

“Grogu is doing great. Just great. He always eats a full plate at mealtime and he has finally fallen into a consistent sleep schedule. His meditation skills are improving.” The blonde’s shoulders hunch inward a little. “He’s getting better than me, honestly. Anyways, forget I said that.” This happens sometimes. The Jedi will turn back into a kid before Din’s eyes. A little goofy, a little backwater. Completely genuine. “Sometimes I wonder why I’m doing this.” He laughs. “I don’t know if you even get these, let alone watch them.”

The Jedi pauses.

“But I know how much you mean to Grogu, and how much Grogu means to you, so I just wanted to let you know that everything is ok….”

A blinding smile, like a sun, has taken over his control panel, warm to the point of uncomfortable. Intense.

“Till next week.”

And then he’s gone.

Din sits there. Stunned. He doesn’t quite understand the tightness in his chest. Before he can stop himself, he’s setting up a return message. He freezes right before he hits the button to start recording, hand hovering, shaking, in midair.

This is ridiculous. He jams the button harder than necessary.

“No problem. I appreciate you taking the time to … tell me – um, this.” Din’s face heats in embarrassment. “I do get your messages.”

Abort! Abort! “Thanks for the update.”

Oh, for Force sake.

He ends the call and flees the cockpit before the message is even finished being sent.

__

When the Jedi messages back, there’s a jubilance to him that just slides right between Din’s ribs and twists.

“I’m so happy you’re getting these! I had an idea. Maybe you can come visit Yavin 4 at some point?”

Din sinks in his chair.

“We have plenty of space and warm food to eat-“

Din ends the message loop early. He’s not quite ready for that. Not just yet.

__

The first time he goes to Yavin 4 to see Grogu, it’s been five months since Moff Gideon’s cruiser.

Din wonders if Grogu will remember what he looks like. The thought claws up from his gut, hollows out his chest, and then lodges in his throat, hard to breath around. He suddenly regrets not replying to the Jedi’s steady stream of messages. However, after the first message debacle two months ago – the one that will _not_ be brought up ever again – he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to wade back into that absolute disaster.

Landing on the jungle planet goes smoothly. Everywhere is green and dense, all tall trees and thick vines. A wide waterfall breaks far on the horizon. Din muses that this place could be considered beautiful, but the heat and humidity will probably rust his beskar in mere months if he’s not careful.

He sits for a few minutes in the pilot’s chair as the ship goes through its automatic draw down procedure, inhaling and exhaling in stiff controlled bursts. Meditative breathing normally works to calm his nerves. Normally.

The prospect of seeing Grogu again is overwhelming. The past three days had been a blur of restless sleep, irregular meals, and lots and lots of pacing.

Stepping off the ship, Din flexes his hands open and shut, stiff at his sides. The humidity really is atrocious, seeping into his clothes and through his filter. The armor might have a cooling system built in, but all this water in the air is going to get uncomfortable. Fast.

Din is too busy internally complaining about the planet sized spa that he doesn’t notice the Jedi approaching until the younger man starts speaking.

“Look Grogu.” A voice sings, energy downright contagious, “It’s your dad.”

Din stares. There they are, standing not ten feet away, in the flesh. He had been fretting over seeing Grogu so much, he forgot to prepare for….

The Jedi keeps his composure for a few moments, but then waves, a little too vigorously. His mouth is wide in a smile, teeth showing, eyes twinkling. After so many months of holograms, seeing Luke Skywalker in person again is jarring. Dangerous, yet ethereal. He knows this man well, sees him often, yet the relationship is entirely one sided. All Luke’s had of Din to go off the past five months is one barely coherent, three sentence long message that screamed of social failure.

Din jerks forward, looking down. Focuses instead on the bundle in the Jedi’s arms.

Everyone knows you shouldn’t look directly at a sun.

“MMMBAH!!!” The Child squeals in recognition, throwing his arms out towards Din and the Mandalorian straight melts. Under his helmet, his own mouth curls into an uncontrolled smile. His eyes are misting.

Dammit.

“Hey runt.” Din says quietly, reaching for the kid. He knew he had missed the little bean, but this was more than he had expected, and borderline more than he could handle right now. Especially with the galaxy’s golden boy _right there_.

The one currently sliding Grogu into his arms.

Din is on his knees before he realizes they’ve buckled, Grogu wrapped in a tight hug, his little bat like ears brushing the underside of Din’s chin. Din revels in the warmth, the softness of the skin to skin contact, and clutches the kid tighter.

Grogu gives him a little huff of exasperation and Din loosens his grip.

Remembering suddenly, Din reaches into his side satchel with his free hand and pulls out the small knobbled top of the Crest’s gear shift. Before Din can even speak, the round silver ball flies from his fingertips into Grogu’s outstretched arms. A constant stream of happy garbling is all he can hear, loud and precious and fuck he suddenly realizes how quiet his life has been since….

“Missed you.” Din says stupidly, gently placing Grogu on the ground. His gloved hand is grabbed by a tiny claw before the Mandalorian can pull it away, so he just stays there, knees in the dirt and hand outstretched.

Grogu looks up at him, waves around the ball, grips Din’s hand tighter.

“He’s really missed you too.” The Jedi says from somewhere above him.

Din glances up, taking in the straight, windblown hair the color of Tatooine sand and those blue, _so blue_ , eyes.

“Thanks for – uh – letting me.” Din says. “Come here.” He’s a regular conversationalist. Real wordsmith. Watch him work his magic. 

Ugh, this is why he likes Cara better. She has low expectations and alcohol. Plus she solves all problems with arm wrestling.

“No problem.” Luke winks.

Din is so fucked.

__

After that, the messages often arrive twice a week.

“Um, Grogu really misses you. He talks about you all the time. Well, I mean, during meditation. Through the Force. It’s like talking but-” Luke clears his throat. The Jedi is suddenly back. “His training is progressing even faster than I had anticipated. He has such natural talent and a good heart; he’ll make a fine Jedi someday. You should be extremely proud. All the good things he’s learned, he apparently learned them from you.”

Din doubts that very much. But it’s still nice to hear.

__

Music plays over the cantina jukebox, some folksy tune he doesn’t recognize.

“So what’s new?” Cara asks.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you staring dreamily at that couple sharing the plate of humongi-dori?” She nods to a table and the two obvious lovebirds in question.

“I am not.”

“Oh good, because they’re absolutely nauseating. ”

“Wasn’t staring-“

“I mean, why can’t they just feed themselves? Talk about lack of hygiene.”

“Drop it please.”

Silence.

“So who’s got your balls in a knot?”

“What? Nobody-“

“Had a wet dream about them yet?”

The modulator doesn’t quite know how to emit his strangled wheeze. It ends up sounding like a droid short circuiting, but it’s just Din being a complete dumbass.

“Well, that’s an affirmative.” Cara grins like a lothcat.

“Cara!!!”

__

The Jedi’s weekly messages regularly go on for at least several minutes. He talks more about the school, its students, and vaguely about his current dealings with the forming powers and various factions of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t know how or why, but the weekly updates even grown to occasionally include two droids. A protocol droid translates for a squat round R2 unit and the Mandalorian wants to throttle either the taller droid or the Jedi through the control panel because its grating on his nerves to listen to them bicker back and forth when he just wants to see Lu – wait, nope, can’t go there.

“As previously mentioned, Master Luke is out at the moment on New Republic business, but he sends his best-”

Really, Master _Jedi_? Droids? It just had to be droids.

__

A year has passed since Moff Gideon.

Din’s life narrows itself down to four points, with only bounties to fill the cracks in between.

The first point is Nevarro, where Karga gives him any bounty fob he wants, as many as he asks for, never a question heard or argument had. Cara is also there, demands they drink together every time he lands, though he never drinks and she often drinks too much. They talk sometimes, which mostly consists of Cara nettling any weakness in Din’s armor she can find. Other times, they just sit. Today is, apparently, a day they don’t talk much. 

“Seen the kid lately?”

“Yes, twice now. I was actually thinking of heading to Yavin 4 next week.” Din shifts. “Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

Pause.

“He still with the Jedi?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Din doesn’t like the contemplative, curious look creeping over Cara’s features. It threatens the fragile peace of Din’s entire existence.

The second point is the Razor Crest II. It has different quirks than the original. Din has swapped out years of grime and use for decades of rust and neglect. Instead of a faulty water modulator and a chair that sometimes sticks to the far left, he has to deal with a fresher door that randomly gets jammed, trapping him inside, naked from a shower, until he can force the door back open. At first this irritates him, acts as a constant reminder of only what his new ship _isn_ _’t_ rather than what she _is_. 

This slowly fades, until he only sees the Crest II, in all her lovely imperfection.

“It’s ok girl.” He says, patting the fresher door, now fully dressed. No longer sopping wet and cursing. “I didn’t mean it.”

And he really doesn’t. At least until the next time he finds himself locked in.

The third point is Yavin 4, which is odd considering he’s only been there twice, with only rough plans of a potential third endeavor. Each of his previous trips were shocks to Din’s system, like seismic charge blips to his rather mundane life.

The first trip lasts three days. Three. Awkward. Excruciating. Days.

Din doesn’t know what to do with himself after walking off the ship and melting into an embarrassing, over-emotional puddle at the Jedi’s feet. He also determinedly keeps the helmet on. The Jedi notices and wordlessly gives him space, mostly by just letting Din explore the compound and surrounding premises alone or with Grogu tucked up against his cuirass.

“Training can wait.” The Jedi quips once, touching a long finger to Grogu’s nose before walking away, his hilariously obnoxious cape billowing out behind him. There are a small handful of students living at the school, Din discovers, and they all clammer to get a good look at the tall, mysterious man in shiny armor. The Jedi just batts them away with ease and continues the lessons so Din can, thankfully, spend time with the Child in peace.

The second trip goes infinitely better. The Jedi joins Din and Grogu for small strolls around the compound, explaining the building’s history as a Rebel outpost. Apparently, there is an extensive Alliance military base six hours due north if one chooses to hike through the untamed wilderness. On speeder the trip takes barely an hour, but the Jedi seems to like the notion of trekking through the trees unaided.

Then they walk, distractingly in step, through the surrounding courtyards, the short blond pointing out various flora and fauna as they pass each one. There are at least a dozen different types of vines, a dozen more species of trees and shrubs, and by then Din is too lost to even begin counting the overwhelming amount of various flowers. The Jedi struggles to pronounce the particularly complicated and foreign name of a flowering vine, tongue uncharacteristically clumsy, but the blonde’s _trying so hard_ and it’s beyond adorable. Din quietly chuckles to himself as the galaxy’s golden boy stumbles over the name, repeats it five different ways before giving up.

A lone raised pot surrounded by a circular bench catches Din’s attention. Planted in the ink dark soil are dozens of small, distinctly shaped six petal flowers, a vibrant purple and violet ombre, stamens long and tufted.

The Jedi notices Din’s interest. “Oh, this is the Kibo flower, _Yaviniis Occulata_. I found a single plant while exploring the jungle when I first moved in. Dug it up and brought it back here before I knew what it was.”

Din stares at the delicate purple mass. Reaches out to touch the slender, waxy petals. Why would it matter whether or not the Jedi took a flower?

The Jedi almost seems to read his thoughts. “They are native to only Yavin 4, very rare, almost on the verge of extinction, to the point botanists were certain there were no more wild specimens. Once I realized that, I decided to replant the flower and cultivate a small colony here to help out the local population.” That slim chest puffs with pride. “Did you know they can cure nerve damage and blindness?”

Din shakes his head and moves away. The Jedi is so genuine in his do-gooding, turning the most small and innocent of mistakes into an opportunity to improve, even with something as small as preserving a species of flower. In a sudden dark pang of irritation, Din wishes he hadn’t seen the flowers, wishes the blond hadn’t explained what they were.

Knowing more about the Jedi is starting to lead him down a path he can’t navigate.

The Jedi then invites Din to spend meals with him and the other students instead of eating in his room with Grogu stealing half his plate while seated on his lap. Din politely declines, not quite ready to take his helmet off among the so many curious little strangers. Children could be scary, especially in packs.

But it’s really facing the Jedi Master that terrifies him.

The fourth and final point is Tatooine, or rather Boba Fett.

The new Crime Lord of Tatooine rapidly makes a name for himself. Despite his growing – brutal – reputation, the other Mandalorian maintains an open door policy with Din, never hesitating to take the younger man under his wing.

Fett even throws him a few bounties and pays him more than the previously agreed upon price upon completion. Din tries to refuse, but Fett just turns, cocks his helmet dangerously to the side. Shand watches them with glittering, dark eyes over the brim of an open bottle. It makes the back of Din’s neck heat so he takes the money and nods in thanks.

Allows Boba to pull him forward to press the foreheads of their helmets together.

See Cara? He has friends, he has a life, he has a job that supports him.

He’s _fine_.

__

“It’s monsoon season here, Grogu likes floating the flood water in the dining hall out through the windows. It’s impressive, until he decides to morph the water into septapus arms.” Luke sounds annoyed, mouth thinning. It’s – cute. “He really enjoyed your last visit. His mood improves and his training always leaps forward right after he sees you so I think it’s a good idea for you to come again next month, if you like. So long as it’s not too often, not a distraction, regular visits might be exactly what he needs.” The Jedi shifts.

“Looking back, I am now certain it depressed him to leave you. That was why he struggled to sleep regularly or interact with the other students. But since he knows he’ll see you again, he’s so much happier and his abilities have steadily improved.”

The Jedi looks borderline uncomfortable. “I should have noticed earlier and I need to apologize for that. I promised I’d give you both my best. And I will. Please trust me when I say I will always put my students first.”

Din does.

He forgives Luke without the man even asking for it.

__

The most unlikely person imaginable tracks him down on an unnamed fringe planet in the middle of a hunt.

He has a lead and he’s busy and he doesn’t have time for this, but she’s waiting. Like a viper.

“Manda’lor.” Bo-Katan Kryze intones, three Mandalorians behind her. Koska stands shoulder to shoulder with the Nite Owl leader, ever loyal, hip cocked to one side. The other two are male, one Din vaguely remembers from his first run in with Kryze while the other is new, armor blue and black. The new Mandalorian actually leans his head and shoulders forward into a warrior’s bow.

No. That’s too much. Please don’t, Din mentally begs.

“Kryze” He replies, tongue thick. He’s tense, ok. He doesn’t quite know what the woman will do and he knows she saw the bow. From one of her own men. She wants what he has, but won’t fight him for it and that’s just as _kriffin confusing_ as the Force is. He’s tried following the damned Jedi’s explanations whenever he manages to squeak out a curious question, but it’s all complete gibberish, like Din’s brain simply isn’t made to comprehend the language.

Bo-Katan is the same sort of infuriating. And far more deadly.

She takes off her helmet. To her, it’s probably meant to be a sign of personal respect, shows she wants to talk to him face to face, but it just sets Din on edge. It feels _wrong_.

He sees her search his person, eyes careful and calculated. She’s looking for the saber.

“Still playing bounty hunter, Manda’lor?”

Din grits his teeth. He almost wishes she would just do it. Just fucking throw a punch already and get this over with.

“Still whining about what’s supposed to be yours?” He replies casually. It’s a little mean, uncalled for, borderline childish. This woman did help him save Grogu, planned and led the main attack. He’d given her a warship in return and even yielded to her the Darksaber. It wasn’t his fault they both made each other twitchy. Not entirely, at least.

He moves to pass her. His ship is just there, in the hangar around the corner, if he can get to it and _leave_. Leave this conversation like he leaves behind everything else.

“Heard you’ve been keeping strange company.”

Din pauses. Turns.

“Boba Fett?” Her mouth is downturned in disapproval.

Silence.

“He’ll either kill you or get you killed.” She states. “You know that, right?”

She kicks a little at the dirt, looks at her foot then back up. “You’ve been spotted all over the place, but the most curious is Yavin 4….”

An angry chill runs down Din’s spine.

“Is there a reason you’re approaching the new Jedi Master, or is that just some game you bounty hunters like to play?” Din knows the jab isn’t meant for only him. Knows Fett would pull his blaster if he were here right now. “Those sorcerers can read minds.”

“One could almost mistake this conversation as you looking out for me.” Din counters finally. “Concerned for my wellbeing, Kryze?”

Her eyebrows scrunch up, eyes almost sad, for one fleeting moment. Not what he was expecting.

“I just want what’s best for our people, burc’ya.”

Din needs to leave. Now. His feet are moving, but his mind has gone a little blank and fuzzy around the edges.

“Manda’lor.” 

Din walks away, moving faster and faster.

“Manda’lor!” She calls.

__

The saber green light is blinking again. Din’s heart jumps at the sight, fluttering in his chest, but then he frowns under his helmet.

Something is happening. There’s the thinnest of catwalks beneath his feet, swaying from side to side with each timid step. Din can sense the precipice beyond, waiting, invisible, ready to swallow him for the smallest misstep.

It’s hard to hear the words coming out of Luke – the Jedi’s – mouth. All he can focus on is the mouth part.

This is no longer just ridiculous. It had progressed into something dangerous.

__

Din finds himself back at Fett’s Tatooine palace, seated at a secluded table in a private parlor with the man himself and his right-hand woman. The three of them are playing a game of cards and Din suspects he’s losing.

“Something on your mind, vod’ika, or are you just this shit at Kabuli Run?” Din bristles as the jab. Then mentally translates the nickname. Kark you, Fett. Not helpful.

Fett plays a card and leans back. In private, the older Mandalorian’s helmet is off, along with his cuirass. Both are set with reverence on a bar only a few feet away. Fett’s blaster rests next to him on the table. After he’s made his move, the scarred man stands up, turns, and walks over to the bar. Shand lays down a card with devilish speed.

Din also suspects that the woman is a card shark, cheating like it’s her damn job, and she’s taking the opportunity of Fett’s back to steal the game right before Din’s eyes.

He finds he doesn’t care and sighs. Plays a card he doesn’t even look at first.

Fett walks back and rejoins them, now carrying two glasses and an unopened bottle of Alderaanian gin. Expensive. Rare.

Not in production anymore.

Fett pops it open easily and pours. At first Din ignores this, thinking the second glass is for Shand, but Fett plucks the glass from the tabletop and leans to place it resolutely in front of Din with a small clink.

“How was Yavin 4?” Fett has his own means of espionage too. Joy.

Din stares down at the offered drink. Sighs again.

Slowly, he reaches up and pulls the helmet off. Shand and Fett already know his face. Plus, this is easier than answering. Or talking at all.

After Moff Gideon, Din had been too stunned and overwhelmed, drowning in his own head, to remember to put the helmet back on as they reboarded Slave I. Cara had nudged his elbow lightly, gently, like she was afraid to spook him. Her eyes searched his, mouth asking him questions like ‘was he ok?’ and ‘could he just talk to her?’ Instead, Din found a secluded spot deep in Slave I’s maintenance access tunnel and cried, knees hugged to his chest and helmet set next to his feet. Like a kriffin child.

Neither Shand or Fett make a big deal out of his naked face. They don’t even look at him as he swirls the liquid in the bottom of the cup. Downs the entire thing like a shot. 

“Be careful with the Jetiise.” Fett’s voice carries venom. Experience. “They can get in your head, vod’ika. Twist everything. Destroy it.”

Shand wins the entire pot. Merciless bitch.

__

Din wakes wrapped in expensive bedsheets that are definitely not his own.

He scrambles to his feet, head splitting like someone jammed a vibroblade into his temple, and wildly looks over to where Fett and Shand are intertwined with each other, both topless and still fast asleep. Din’s fully dressed, but his beskar is gone. Panic has him frozen and shaking for a second, hunched over like an animal, ready to bolt at the next thing to move too fast or make too much noise. It’s easy to recognize Fett’s private quarters; he’s been here before to discuss secret bounties, ones instrumental to Fett’s enterprise. Then, finally, he spots his metal ensemble adorning an armor stand against the far wall. Fett’s own armor is neatly hanging from a second stand next to it.

Both sets, side by side.

Din glances down at Fett, who is sprawled out in the bed, all powerful corded muscle and menacing scars, and he finds himself suddenly very unsteady on his feet. Like he’s still drunk. The older Mandalorian stirs in his sleep at the commotion, causing Shand to possessively burrow her face into his neck.

Right. That’s Din’s cue to leave. Immediately. 

His armor is warm and dusty – thank you, Tatooine, no really, thanks a lot – and he slips it on with quick efficiency. Letting this happen was a mistake. All of it points to weakness.

Din’s weakness.

His head aches like it’s trapped in a trash compactor, but snippets of last night come back to him slowly, in blurred increments. They burn at him in bright flashes from behind his eyelids whenever he blinks. He remembers refusing Shand’s offer for sex, Fett’s arm slipping from around his waist in resignation, but then he’d crawled right into Fett’s bed, stretched out and shivering between the two of them, soaking up all the contact he could. They’d been all too happy to oblige him, pressing in close, Shand slipping her clever hands under his shirt and Fett slotting strong hips behind Din’s, intertwining their legs.

His thigh tassets are too tight, his vambraces too, but Din doesn’t loosen them. He’s punishing himself; he knows.

“Vod’ika?” Fett finally says from the bed, barely awake. “Get in the bed, ner vod’ika. Gedet’ye.”

Din walks away from Fett and his poisoned promises, almost laughing to himself at how similar the older Mandalorian is to Bo-Katan Kryze.

__

Of course he knows that the Jetiise and Mando’ade are two parties participating in one of the oldest and bloodiest feuds in the entire galaxy. There have been multiple full-on wars fought over the subject.

Din _knows_ this.

Still, his lips quirk into a shy grin as he gets his latest message.

“I told Grogu you’re coming next week, he kinda squealed and sent everything in the room flying. So he might or might not be excited, hard to tell.” The Jedi is giving that sun-like smile. He wonders what the Jedi thinks about to smile like that. It has to be something amazing to cause such intense light and joy and warmth.

Something truly breathtaking.

__

Kryze’s words echo in Din’s head as he watches the Jedi meditate. The students are scattered about the courtyard, all silent in their exercise, Grogu included, his little fingers forming circles and resting on his knees. Din stands very still, not realizing until it was too late what he was even walking into.

_‘Those sorcerers can read minds.’_

He freezes under the courtyard entry arch and just…. waits.

Minutes tick by, slow and tortuous. Sweat begins to bead in the short hair on Din’s nape. It tickles and runs down into his cowl, making his already damp linen even more sticky. Yavin 4 is just _the worst_. Still, he remains perfectly still, as if drawing more attention to himself will trigger the legendary Jedi and his half dozen pupils to drill into his most private thoughts and lay every broken part of him bare for all to see.

Din doesn’t know how long it is until the Jedi finally ends the session. The kids cackle and chase each other around the courtyard, and Din scoots back, wincing when two kids run into each other. It’s pure chaos. Kids are pure chaos.

He just wants Grogu and peace. And maybe…

Din finds himself looking, searching, for the Master and sees the other man walking towards him, Grogu in his arms. His chest seizes, and he can’t breathe. His mouth is dry linen and his ears fill with the white noise of a live mic.

This had happened when he first arrived too.

He’d landed the Crest II and walked down the ramp to see Luke already walking towards him, wind whipping his hair into something comical and untamed. The sight of them, _both of them_ , had Din smiling, small and timid, under his helmet. Realizing he was staring, the Mandalorian coughed and strode forward, towering over the Jedi as he took the Child from his arms. Suddenly it was hard to breath, his helmet claustrophobic and suffocating.

Now, as he moves forward to accept Grogu, his breath shallows again and his throat tightens. Like it’s clogged.

__

“Want to see something amazing?” The Jedi asks him.

Din looks up from where he is laying in the short shrubs behind the Jedi school, Grogu using him as a personal jungle gym. “Um.”

Not a good idea, Djarin. Better not.

“Sure.”

Shit.

Too late now.

The Jedi has them pack some water and a cold meal of cured meats and cheeses. Also, he strips off his outer robes, leaving on only a thin sleeveless tunic and loose pants tucked into knee length boots.

Din tilts his head to the side in silent question. “It’ll be a hard hike.” The Jedi shrugs. Ah, so they’re going out into the jungle. He sets his armor to max cooling, but he’s already damp and sweating, his linens sticking to his skin and itching like they’re made of dune-cactus needles. A brief moment of trepidation creeps up on him, brushes at the nape of his neck, before he shoves it away. Instead he carefully shadows the Jedi, notices that for some odd reason Luke is still wearing one of his gloves. Then realizes he's never seen the man without it. Odd, but none of Din's business. 

They leave and immediately turn west, Grogu nestled in his normal pouch instead of Din’s arms and the Jedi chattering at him every few minutes. Mischief and adventure coat the blonde’s tone. Din scans his memory, trying to figure out where they could be going, but all he can see is sweat collecting into glistening rivulets on Luke – Force damn it, the Jedi’s – shoulders. It’s very distracting.

He’s sweating too. But he listens to the Jedi talk, telling story after story, some he’s told Din before, with some new ones sprinkled it to keep the Mandalorian interested. Din answers pointed comments, maybe asks a question here or gives a noncommittal grunt there, but the Jedi doesn’t seem to mind. He likes these sorts of things, Din notices. Going off, doing daring things. It’s the first time Din considers maybe the Jedi is a little stir crazy, maybe even a little lonely.

That’s an interesting thought.

However, barely an hour into the hike and Din is wheezing. Normally he doesn’t get this winded so quickly. Every breath rattles harder than the last. Grogu looks up at him, making a sound of worried question.

_‘Those sorcerers read your mind.’_

Sweat pours along his brow, drips down his nose. And he can’t reach up to wipe any of it away due to the self-imposed barrier of beskar.

He jolts with realization. He could wipe the sweat from his face, maybe, if he took off the helmet. The Jedi has seen him dishelmed. Stared him straight in the eyes and smiled. Din had been too confused, too sensitive and raw, to really grasp the full situation, but now he can. However, the thought of pulling his helmet off and facing the Jedi unprotected has his shoulders creeping up towards his ears.

It’s all so embarrassing.

He makes it another hour, trailing behind the Jedi like a well-trained pup, before he finally caves.

Growling in frustration, Din jams his fingers up under the lip of his helmet to wipe away the steady river of salted perspiration from his neck and chin, from out of his beard and mouth. He can’t quite reach his dripping nose. Tatooine had been hard, especially when he had lost his speeder, but it was also a dry heat. His sweat evaporated almost as soon as it left his body.

Here it just collects in itchy, clammy rivers until his clothes are a soggy mess.

Finally done, resolute in his decision, Din stops dead, turns away from the Jedi in front of him, and pulls the helmet off. He uses his cowl to wipe away the copious liquid coating every square inch of his face before shoving damp curls back off his forehead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Grogu staring up at him, black eyes wide and curious.

 _‘Can you read my thoughts?’_ He wonders.

If he’s honest, it’s not really the Child he’s worried about. It’s-

“You good?” the Jedi calls. Din looks up at him from over a turned shoulder. He can’t even meet those blue eyes for the barest moments before his own are gliding away on their own volition, looking at the foliage instead.

“’m’f’ne,” He chokes out. Clears his throat. Tries again. “I’m fine.”

Luke nods his head. Din can feel him staring.

 _‘Can you read my thoughts?_ ’ Din tries again, still turned away but this time speaking to the Master. The wind picks up suddenly, causing the trees to shake in a whispering song of leaves and creaking branches. It is beautiful. Serene. The fresh air feels heavenly against his heated skin.

“That wind is nice.” The Jedi murmurs and Din snaps to attention. Din watches with suspicious skepticism as the younger man turns to continue trekking through the trees. The Jedi seems oblivious, or just ignores him, casually stepping over the healthy jungle growth with practiced ease. “I love this hike.” He calls back, repeating his earlier sentiment.

Din wonders how much longer till they reach their destination.

“Not much longer now.” Is the immediate answer.

A mixture of curiosity and dread rest like a stone deep in Din’s gut. Maybe coming out here – kriff, getting to know the Jedi at all – was a mistake, a truly impulsive, weak mistake made by a drowning man struggling to keep afloat.

This is all going to end horribly. Din can feel it in his core.

Still, he can’t quite bring himself to put the helmet back on, tucking it under one arm instead and carrying it the rest of the way.

__

Finally, at the top of hour three, Din, Grogu and the Jedi break from the dense tree line and stand quietly at the precipice of a sheer cliff face, open space dropping out before them with dizzying steepness. From where they are standing, everything expands, racing outwards into a deep, narrow valley, dominated by the roar of a waterfall on the opposite edge.

Din distantly remembers seeing it flying in the first time he visited.

The sheer volume of churning water is an impressive natural display, cascading into a deep lake before trailing off into a slow moving river that winds through the trees and disappears out of sight.

Everything is so pristine, undisturbed. Wild.

“I knew you’d like this.” The Jedi says, patting one of Din biceps, the lower part, where his pauldron doesn’t reach. Din has to shake the entire arm just to get the tingle out of it. He doesn’t understand why everything turns so mushy around the Jedi. He understands there’s something going on that shouldn’t be, he just _doesn_ _’t know why_. Sure, ok fine, the Jedi is continual weekly contact and attention, a constant force steady against the bottomless, ever changing pit of meaninglessness continuance that haunts Din’s every waking moment. And sometimes the sleeping ones too.

But why do his feet have to stumble over each other like this? What does it mean when your heartbeat won’t stop pounding in your ears?

They slowly make the downward hike into the valley, some portions of the trail little more than a foot wide path attached to sheer cliff face. The sun is aggressive in its onslaught, but they’re back under the jungle canopy before too long.

The air is cooler along the valley floor, but no less humid. Once they reach the edge of the lake, the Jedi stands there, staring in proud accomplishment. Din takes his time to slowly spin in a full circle, appreciating the full panoramic view from the bottom of the fish bowl as all around him is jutting rock and mountain covered in thick, ancient, untamed foliage. The rumble of the waterfall is overpowering down here, but not deafening. Dominant, but not brutal. The lake is relatively calm, gentle waves lapping at the shore.

Grogu hums, Din thinks in approval, so he places the Child down to let him explore. Of course, little brat goes straight for the water. Din makes a strangled noise and picks him back up, eying the water suspiciously. The last time water, Grogu and Din all came into contact it had been anything but fun.

“It’s fine.” The Jedi calls, reading him once again. Din’s ears heat. Could the blond maybe be useful for once and tell him what is going on in his own head? Explain his own feelings to him like he’s a damned teenager all over again?

The Mandalorian hesitates, but sets Grogu back down all the same. He follows the Child to the waterline, hovering.

“Ok, um.” He fidgets. “Not too deep now. That’s enough. Ok, yup, Come back. That’s enough. Nope come back please. Come back now.”

Din wades into the water, splashing awkwardly in every direction, plucks a jubilant – waterlogged – Grogu from the water. The brown sack onesie is now entirely soaked.

And so are Din’s boots.

Great! Just-

There’s a tinkling noise, quiet and teasing. Din looks up the shoreline and sees the Jedi’s shoulders jumping with mirth, and hand covering those dust pink lips. Luke has his own boots pulled off and laid out in the sun, his bare feet digging into the sand along the waterline. The water washes around his bare ankles in little dragging motions.

The Jedi is laughing at him.

Din stands there, holding a soggy Grogu at arm’s length, in full armor sans helmet, salt soaked flight suit, and boots that now squeak with every step.

If Din could just find a hole and bury himself in it out of shame, he would. Instead he coughs, throat collapsing in on itself again, and pulls Grogu’s tunic off with practiced precision, despite its stubborn insistence on sticking to skin while wet. He drops the article of clothing onto a long flat rock to bake in the sun and finally sets Grogu back down to frolic the beach in his underwear. He’s a baby; it’s allowed. Right? Grumbling, he pulls his own boots off, sets them upon the rock to dry as well.

Next, with trembling hands, Din peels off every article of beskar and tucks it all, along with his helmet, under a shaded lip nearby, as if to hide it from view. He tells himself he sets it there so it won’t be out in the sun, so it won’t heat up and scald him once he wishes to put it all back on.

Lying to yourself only really works if the lie is for a good reason.

Din can’t find that reason. Not here, not now. Unless a blond Jedi with a bell-like laugh currently wading out into clear water is a good reason.

Maybe.

Din hopes it is.

(But he knows better.)

__

“You have your own light saber?” The Jedi deadpans, his voice shocked. It’s the first time Din has ever heard him surprised by something.

“It’s a Darksaber.” He mumbles, toying with the sand next to his feet.

“But…. It’s a light saber.” It’s spoken like a statement, not a question.

“It’s like your laser sword. Yes.”

Pause

“Can I see it?” There’s an almost impish glee hidden in the Jedi’s voice.

Din thinks of the saber’s hiding spot, deep in the Crest II’s underbelly. Frowns.

“Ok, or not. That’s fine.”

Din glances up to see Luke watching him. Just watching him so closely.

“I have to say,” The Jedi starts, leaning back on his elbows from where he’s lying in the sand, lazy and content. His pants are rolled up to his knees and his bare ankles are crossed one over the other. Din wonders how many people have seen legendary Jedi Master, Luke Skywalker, like this. “It’s nice to finally get to know you.”

What? They know each other. With a sinking of his gut, Din realizes they don’t. Not really. Or rather, the Jedi has never been given the opportunity to get to know him.

Din’s face scrunches without his permission. A lifetime under the helmet has made him a little rusty on schooling his expressions, leaves him exposed and extremely easy to read. And forget direct eye contact. It makes him tense, jittery, with his stomach knotting in uncomfortable anxiety. He remains still and quiet though. Rigid.

So they sit there, silent except for the whisper of the trees and the roar of the waterfall. A bird caws loudly from the canopy.

It’s awkward.

Even Din can feel the tension and he knows he can be bad at reading these sorts of things, so he focuses instead on the Child. Grogu toddles along the edge of water line, oblivious to the conversation, having grown bored of the two adults and their stationary sunbathing long ago. He’s taking turns finding places to bury the Razor Crest’s gearshift cap, digging his claws into the sand happily, and after the tiny ball is buried he pulls it from the hiding spot with his magic abilities. It’s a simple game, but Grogu seems to enjoy the challenge so Din just lets him entertain himself.

Din slowly relaxes again as another soothing gust of cool wind races through the trees, rustles his drying clothes. 

The valley is like a bubble, a safe cocoon where the outside world doesn’t exist anymore, luring anyone foolish enough to believe the lie into a fantasy almost too enticing to turn away from. Din can see why the Jedi likes it here.

“How long have you been a Mandalorian?” The Jedi attempts to lure him back into another conversation. Sometimes Din will bite, other times he lets the silence speak for him. The other man doesn’t pry, seems to understand.

“Since I swore the Creed.” Din decides to answer this time. At the continued silence from the Jedi, he elaborates. “Fifteen.”

“Wow. I was shooting womp rats and trying to figure out how to kiss a girl at fifteen. Thought I was some sort of flyboy genius.”

Din shuffles, looking away to hide his souring expression. It absolutely does not matter to him at all that the Jedi wants to kiss girls. With a face like that and reputation to match, the blond has probably kissed so many he can’t remember all of their names, or even faces.

It also doesn’t matter that Din’s never kissed anyone, female or otherwise.

Fett had tried. That one night in his bed. Din had squirmed away, turning his jaw upward. Fett didn’t try again.

“So until recently, you haven’t shown your face to anyone since you were… a kid?” The Jedi presses through Din’s wallowing.

“No.” The gravitas of the single word is heavy, immovable.

The Jedi makes a small whistling noise. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then, “Grogu is lucky to have someone like you.” That kind, gentle voice lowers, straining with unidentified emotion, “A father who loves him that much.”

Din jerks. Suddenly he’s staring Luke in the eye, confused and overwhelmed, and wow it feels amazing but also agonizingly intense so he should look away but he can’t and he should say something but he can’t do that either so he just sits there dumbfounded and raw and exposed-

The Jedi shows him mercy, looking away, turning his head upwards to bask in the sunshine.

Well that’s not much better, Din notes, as that pale neck hypnotically extends backwards, but at least he’s no longer trapped by those beautiful sky-colored eyes.

Din heaves in a large breath. He’s in the middle of trying to calm his racing heart, trying to realize what in the name of the Force is going on with him, when a sharp pain slices him across the chest, white hot and unexpected. It almost feels like blaster fire except it’s inside his ribcage already, making his lungs burn from the inside out. A cough bubbles up his throat.

“Water?” A canteen is offered Din’s way by a slim hand wrapped in black leather, but he can’t figure out if the Jedi is actually trying to give him a drink, poking fun, or politely overlooking the bonfire of emotions Din must be emitting right now.

Maybe a combination of all three.

Din refuses the drink, instead allows himself to curiously glance at the gloved hand. Wonder what's underneath the thick leather that Luke would keep it on even out here.

“Want to go for a swim?” The Jedi tries instead.

The Mandalorian freezes. Contemplates telling the truth or not. The Jedi would probably easily sense a lie, so Din decides against it.

“I can’t”

“Can’t what?”

“Swim.” Din’s never admitted that out loud to anyone before.

“You never learned as a kid?” Luke isn’t mocking him, he sounds genuinely curious, but Din is feeling a bit like a caged animal at the moment. It’s instinct more than anything else that has him lashing out, claws extended.

“You ever figure out how to kiss a girl?”

“Yes.” The Jedi smoothly replies without even hesitating and it’s so damn smug, yet innocent and humble at the same time. How is that even possible?

Din wants to bite back, but he knows he deserves the snarking backlash. He deserves the stab of painful jealousy, the rising anger and resulting inadequacy.

“Does the Mandalorian Creed not allow it?”

“What? Swimming?”

“No,” The Jedi’s lips quirk into something devilish, “Kissing.”

Din doesn’t answer. Technically, there’s nothing in the Creed against kissing, but the logistics of pulling off the activity with someone else and his oath remaining intact afterward has always scared the bantha shit out of Din, so he’s never tried.

“Don’t worry. Jedi aren’t supposed to either.”

Din frowns. “Kiss?”

“No, swim.” The Jedi laughs, so beautifully relaxed, carefree, childishly playful. “Of course, I mean kiss.”

Din flushes for the hundredth time in one day. Of course that’s what the Jedi meant. Of course. 

The younger man’s elbows move out from underneath him and he collapses onto his back in the sand, staring blankly up at the afternoon sky. “Or anything else really, which is a shame.” Oh wow, and that shoots straight to Din’s groin in a white hot flash of desire. However, he doesn’t quite know how to interpret or react to the barely there sigh of defeat that escapes the Jedi’s mouth.

Blue eyes close and, for a moment, it looks like the Jedi is sleeping. Din knows the blond is young, but like this he could easily be mistaken for a teenager. Slim, unassuming and vulnerable. This close, Din can see a dusting of freckles dotting over the bridge of Luke's nose, across his cheeks. Suddenly the man laying next to him is not ‘the Jedi’ anymore, or even Skywalker, the renowned face of the New Republic and a fresh start for the entire galaxy.

He’s just Luke.

A sheltered farm boy enjoying a free afternoon in the sun, debating on a good swim as he fantasizes about the puppy love and clumsy kissing.

Din swallows. His mouth is dry, parched, and the motion of his bobbing Adam’s apple is a little painful within the stiff confines of his throat. The heat pooling low in his gut is still churning, interested in this very specific topic. The Mandalorian surprises himself by speaking first this time.

“Jedi can’t do… anything?” He asks shyly and instantly regrets it. A million other questions seem more important, like why Din should even care, because he really shouldn’t, and more importantly he _doesn_ _’t_ care. Not at all.

Luke reopens his eyes. Squints, as if caught halfway between agitated and perplexed. He pauses to collect himself before answering, but when he speaks Din almost flinches at the blonde’s tone. It doesn’t sound like Luke, instead he sounds more like his protocol droid than anything remotely human. Formal and detached.

“A Jedi swears off all material and emotional attachments, including romantic relationships. Our foremost allegiance is to the Jedi Order and maintaining balance within the Force. A Jedi must be in control of their emotions at all times, so their emotions do not control them.”

For Din, understanding comes in waves. First, it’s just a flood of hot frustration, followed by sadness edged with a touch of rage, and finally his mental whiplash ends with guilt that damn near caves his chest inward. No wonder the Jedi has been refusing to comment on any of the Din’s amateurish projecting all afternoon, even though Din is certain Luke can sense every thought and emotion. This entire time, Din has been fostering… _whatever it is he feels,_ for someone who pointedly cannot reciprocate, even if they wanted to. Even if Din _was_ Luke’s type, which apparently, he is not.

Din is so tired. Stringing two coherent thoughts together feels downright impossible and there’s an ache in every muscle that shoots straight through his very bones.

“Sounds exhausting.” He says finally.

“It is.”

“And lonely.” Din’s been there. Is currently there, as he sits with two of the most important beings populating his entire existence. Din understands how it feels to be alone among friends. Family.

Oddly, Din suddenly feels like he’s reading the Jedi’s mind instead of the other way around.

The notion is not nearly as comforting as it maybe should be. Instead Din’s world slowly cracks around the seams, adding strain to the hairline fractures that have been spidering through his life for an entire year now, and everything threatens to crumble from right under his feet due to the pressure.

“Sorry.” The Jedi sits up suddenly. “That was inappropriate.”

The blond is gone from Din’s side in a flurry of limbs and loose sand as he moves over to where his pack is lying propped up against the rock. In no time, a blanket has been laid out with a small spread of finger foods to pick from arranged on top of it.

“Grogu!” the Jedi calls. “Hungry?”

And of course the Child is, as he immediately begins toddling in their direction.

“It’s ok.” Din mumbles under his breath, knowing no one will hear him.

It’s ok that the first person to spark his interest in years can never return his feelings. Of all the people in the entire galaxy, Din understands choosing to live one’s life abiding by a strict code, a Creed; he knows what it means to sacrifice for something more than himself. Asking the other man to abandon his Jedi Oath eerily mirrors Din’s own increasingly complicated relationship with cultural obligations and self-discipline. A battle he’s failed multiple times now, as evidenced by his bare face. This is not something another person can ever ask for, it’s something only the Jedi can decide for himself.

Din will never ask, but he _will_ live.

He’s survived much worse than a broken heart. 

__

On the trek back through the woods, sun slowly setting over the treetops in an orange and pink glow, Din struggles to catch his breath.

His cough is getting worse and his sore throat now aches even after his chest has stopped spasming. 

Din wonders if he’s getting sick. Knows it’s just his kind of bad luck, striking yet again.

__

As he fires up the Razor Crest II, looking through the viewport at Grogu and the Jedi, watching them wave back at him, Din goes a little numb.

Distant. Cold. 

But suddenly, his chest seizes again, throat tickling. He releases the pressure with a half-aborted cough, white hot and dry. The Crest II lifts off, heaving upwards, bending the laws of nature and gravity. Din tries not to let the deep sadness, the loneliness, take over as he rises into the atmosphere, but it’s seeped into his bones now, stained them grey and dull and lifeless. Turning the Crest II towards the blue-black abyss of space, he coughs again, louder this time.

Thinks nothing of it and presses the yoke forward.

It’s not until the third cough, loud and ragged even against the crackling roar of the engines as they engage with the hyperdrive, that Din frowns. That last one had fogged up his visor, left little beads of spittle all over the inner lining. He’s going to have to wash the entire thing now. Perfect. Destination coordinates input into the computer and autopilot finally engaged, Din reaches up to yank the helmet from his shoulders roughly, just in time for an entire fit of sharp coughs to force their way past his lips.

Something isn’t right. This time, they don’t subside after just one or two. Instead they grow into wet hacks, then gasping chokes, Din’s shoulders shaking and the inside of his larynx throbbing. A ripping in his chest, inside his lungs, makes him gag. One hand flies to his throat while the other reaches out to brace, white knuckled, against the cockpit dash board. Something is clawing slowly up his throat, regurgitated from deep in his core and unapologetically forcing itself back out into the world.

His eyes are burning, forming tears in the brim that threaten to fall due to the forward thrust of the engine’s momentum.

Finally, whatever was lodged in his throat breaks free and Din scrambles to spit it out onto the metal grating of the floor, winded – no, completely _exhausted_. A shaking hand wipes furiously at his mouth and then at the corners of his eyes, pressing away the growing moisture there before it drips down his cheeks.

His vision slowly clears and after a moment to reorient himself Din looks down, begins searching. Catches sight of what he’s vomited as it lies innocuously between his booted feet. 

At first it doesn’t make sense, seems impossible, but then it does make sense. Everything shrinks, Din’s vision tunneling. The full gravitas of what lays at his feet sets in and Din lists helpless like he’s been thrown into hard vacuum, everything pressing in on him, pulling in every direction at once, all while stealing the air from his lungs until they expand and rupture like too full balloons inside his fragile, heaving chest.

Din stares down at the slender flower petal, covered in saliva and blood. His throat burns and constricts in on itself. A wounded cry, the sound of something dying, rushes out of him.

The singular petal is instantly recognizable, even without its five identical siblings blooming outward from a vibrant tufty center. Delicate, fragile, and damning in its simplistic beauty.

But this Kibo flower isn’t purple. 

It’s blue. The same blue as the Jedi’s eyes.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> So, anyone wanna go for milkshakes??
> 
> Read my other work [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180107/chapters/69052335) , and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28042677/chapters/68699289)
> 
> My Tumblr: (I creep, don't really post, but feel free to chat with me): [Avathys](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/avathys)
> 
> And I just joined Discord. avathys#8899
> 
> Please leave me kudos and comments. I love them. I sit in my nest and fawn over them like they are the One Ring of Power.
> 
> Manda'o translations  
> vod'ika: Baby brother (ner is "my" so "ner vod'ika" would be my baby brother)  
> Gedet'ye - please  
> burc'ya - friend  
> Jetiise - The Jedi (multiple, or as a whole)  
> Mando'ade - Children of Mandalore


End file.
